


Losing Track of Time

by Catchclaw



Series: Mental Mimosa [44]
Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Curtain Fic, Domestic Fluff, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-06
Updated: 2018-06-06
Packaged: 2019-05-18 22:04:20
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 567
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14861117
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Catchclaw/pseuds/Catchclaw
Summary: The house is in the middle of nowhere, which is right where it should be.





	Losing Track of Time

**Author's Note:**

> Prompt: Your heart's on fire, but you're cold to the touch. Prompt from this [generator](http://colormayfade.tumblr.com/generator).
> 
> How my brain got from that prompt to this fic, I'm not sure. Guess I wasn't in the mood for heartbreak today.

The house is in the middle of nowhere, which is right where it should be. Behind the house, there’s a barn big enough for the goats, Jacob the barn cat, and the occasional stray possum looking to get out of the cold. There are also trees behind the house, lots of them; a rough hillside if you go back far enough that tumbles down to a creek, one that runs fast in the spring when the snows melt and stutters to a trickle most summers, unless they get a really hard rain. Then the thing will overflow its banks in a hurry, rushing out through the underbrush and beating into the base of the hillside, churning good earth into mud.

In the spring, there are deer everywhere, leaping in and out of the sunshine, rushing through the shadows at dusk. The dogs are used to them and don’t make a fuss; well, one of them doesn’t, anyway. It takes a lot more than an everyday deer to get Happy away from Steve’s side, but if Cornflake hears so much as a stick crunch and he’s barreling towards the nearest window, barking his fool head off. He has no idea of how small he is, how easily even a doe could dropkick him if he got close enough, never mind a full-grown buck. It’s half the reason why Bucky likes the little fluff: his hardheadeness, that inability to understand his size as a weakness. Can’t imagine why.

Most days, they’re up early, while the world is still quiet, while the moon is singing her last verse of the evening before sinking gracefully into the trees. There’s work to do, there’s that, but there’s something else, too: a peace to that time, to sitting around the kitchen table or on the porch with a mug of something hot in their hands and watching their new world wake up. Sometimes, Bucky will sit in Steve’s lap, his legs kicked over the side of the chair, his face tucked into Steve’s neck. Steve will still smell like sleep, a little bit like coffee, and Bucky can’t help but kiss him there, lick at the soft skin, the stubble, until Steve’s arms go tight and his breath starts to stutter and he’ll set his cup down beside the chair, careful, turn his face into Bucky’s and whisper: “Five more minutes, ok?”

“Sure,” Bucky will say, biting gently at Steve’s mouth, “just five more.”

Sometimes, Steve’ll stick to his guns and shove Bucky out of his lap once their time is up, will smirk down at him and his hard on and say something dumb about getting to work.

Sometimes, though, Bucky will make him forget all about the damn clock, the have-tos, the to-do list in Steve’s head that never shuts up, and Steve will end up with his pajama pants around his ankles and Bucky’s come on his chest and they’ll end up entangled ‘til sunrise, until the dogs get worried and start sniffing around for their breakfast, Happy’s wet nose and Cornflake’s outrage startling them from their stupor.

“This is your fault,” Steve will grumble, chasing one more kiss, a dozen.

“Me?” Bucky will say, kissing back, his fingers tracing the curve of Steve’s chest, lingering over the damp there, the dew. “That’s goddamn slander, Stevie, and you know it. I can’t help it if you lost track of time.”  
  



End file.
